We’ve all written them—the turkey of a story or novel that ain’t gonna get published nowhere.  Whatever the reasons, it’s just not the kind of thing that any self-respecting editor or publisher will buy.  Maybe it deals with an unpleasant subject, represents an experiment that folks tell you went horribly wrong, or is the equivalent of performing “Springtime for Hitler” at a Zionist convention.  Whatever the case, it’s a creative turkey, a misconceived, misbegotten miscarriage that you foolishly pulled from the realm of ideas where it richly deserved to stay, and committed to paper or your computer screen.  Now it’s become every writer’s worst nightmare, the TRUNK STORY FROM HELL that should be sealed in that trunk forever and sunk to the deepest level of the Mariana Trench. 

Well, maybe.  And then again, maybe not. 

The thing is, ultimately, you, not your critics, have to decide if your story has any merit.  Then, too, you have to decide if it’s worth continuing to pursue the matter and trying to publish the damned thing.  When does stubbornness become stupidity, especially when it becomes clear that if you do finally manage to sell that piece of unwanted and despised dreck, you won’t even get paid enough to buy a cheap martini?  Isn’t it far wiser to focus your creative endeavors on something that’s worthy, on something that’s not only good but which will sell to a decent, professional market? 

Still, you have to decide.  Money and critical and popular recognition are important, but most of us have a story or two in our trunk that against all reason, we feel a perverted love for, an insane suspicion that despite what everyone says, it actually contains some merit, perhaps even more merit than popular, commercial stories because it dares to be different and take chances, because it doesn’t run with the pack.  Hell, maybe that story or novel not only marches to the tune of a different drummer, but it sings a song that no one else can hear, yet which is beautiful in its own way. 

During my writing career, I have ultimately sold stories that not only no one seemed to want, but which they treated like leprosy.  One story I wrote a few years ago, “The Dark at the Bottom of the Stairs,” sprang (if that’s the word) from a personal visit to have my prostate and bladder tested.  It wasn’t a pleasant experience, folks, but I adapted the experience so it became a story.  One of my friends who critiqued the tale, said it “failed on every level.”  Ouch. 

Yet last week I finally sold it.  Not for big bucks, mind you, but to a trade paperback collection focusing on unpleasant experiences.  It’s called . . . now get this . . . WRETCHED MOMENTS.   Snort if you want, but haven’t we all had such moments?  I bet if you think a while, you can remember some wretched moments you’ve had and perhaps stories you’ve written that were inspired by them.

Ultimately, the question is: how much do you believe in that story?  If you’ve considered all the negative criticism and still believe your story’s good, do you have the strength and determination to continue shopping it around, even if it doesn’t find a prestigious or profitable home? 

The purpose of this blog, as astute readers may have guessed, is to urge you not to quit.  Persist, Persist, Persist.  Persevere.   Persevere.  Persevere.  Even if you face seemingly insurmountable odds, the long fight is worth it if you succeed in bringing a good but extremely unconventional story to readers’ attention.

Who knows, they may even thank you for it.

by John B. Rosenman

In the spirit of public service to writers everywhere, especially beginners, this is the first in a series of fearless exposes of GREAT WRITER MYTHS. Illusions may be nice and comforting, but they have a downside: they can blind you to reality and prevent you from coping with it. For a writer this can be particularly deadly and pernicious. Thinking that stuffed, DOA turkey you wrote is actually a living, champion thoroughbred about to win the Triple Crown will never enable you to develop as a writer and achieve your potential, which is possible only if you try something which you do have some talent for and were meant to do, like collect stamps, be a serial killer, or run for high public office.

This month’s myth came up a few months ago on one of the loops I frequent. Someone was saying that even negative criticism from an editor or publisher was good because it showed he had noticed you and that you had made an impression. In return I wrote, “This is often, perhaps usually true, but not always. I have received personalized rejections savaging my stories and ripping them apart.”

Folks, I thought I had made my case. However, the bloke at the other end wrote: “If you get personalized rejections, YOU HAVE ACHIEVED A CERTAIN LEVEL.” He added, “I was in a writers group . . . and whenever someone received a response, it was cause for celebration because we usually just got form rejections . . . If someone takes the time to send you a personal note, it’s because they think you have potential and believe you should keep writing.” In fact, you should consider personalized rejections as a encouragement from “the publishing world” that “You’ve come a long way, and are almost there.”

Okay, I remember that for years when I started writing, all I received were form rejection slips. I’m sure most on this site have had a similar experience. You might even get to the point where you’d be happy just to see a scrawled “Thanks” or “Up Yours” on one of those forms. Under the circumstances, we can understand why a writer, especially a desperate, beginning one, would look forward to and treasure even the most casual response or recognition of his existence from an editor, why he would embrace even the most tenuous sign that a real live human being existed out there who had actually taken a few minutes to read his words and respond. But folks, while a reply, even a negative one, OFTEN implies something positive, and suggests that you may have climbed out of the great unwashed multitude of writers and achieved some small degree of distinction, it does not necessarily mean that. To think otherwise is to embrace a delusion and an illusion about the submission process, and friends, my conscience would not rest if I did not put this mischievous myth in the crapper where it belongs. Call me a mean-spirited killjoy if you like, but thinking a slap in the face is actually a flirtatious come-on will only prove a liability. Ultimately, it will weaken rather than strengthen you.

I can already here someone say, “But why deny a writer what encouragement he sees? Why take away what hope he has?” To which I would respond, “Didn’t you read the previous paragraph?” Getting published and achieving success as a writer is difficult enough; when you form a habit of grossly misinterpreting editors’ words and signals, it becomes immeasurably harder. Reading the situation for something else than it really is will only handicap you because it separates you from reality and makes it impossible for you to learn from what editors actually mean and improve your writing on the basis of it.

To be honest, I don’t know how much a problem this Pollyanna attitude toward negative feedback is. Perhaps I’m making a big deal out of a small one, and clutching at editorial straws is a tendency that afflicts only the terminally desperate. Assuming it’s a genuine problem, though, here are five things that such writers should remember.

1. These days, more and more editors/publishers are commenting on writers’ work anyway. This is largely due to the fact that magazines and publishers are paperless and do their thing increasingly online. Everything’s cheaper: space, layout, and TIME. When all you have to do is type a few words and click Send, you’re far more likely to comment on that story you hated. The sanguine writer I mentioned earlier wrote that editors “are basically business people and have no time” to send comments they don’t mean. Well, when a response is just a key tap or a mouse click away, they often do.

2. If the editor’s review is relentlessly negative and/or vicious without any mitigating features, such as an invitation to send more of your work, then you can probably bet he’s not interested in a second date. In other words, don’t assume he’s aroused and wants to play bump and tickle just because he responded.

 3. Some editors are mean, negative, overly critical. It’s their nature to see warts on everything and to praise almost nothing.

4. By the same token, some editors are kind-hearted and positive like Paula Abdul and  praise too much. They don’t want to hurt your feelings but may unintentionally do something even worse: lead you astray by sending the wrong impression. I mean, what part of the word REJECTION don’t you understand?

5. Finally, lest I’ve created the wrong impression here, often editorial feedback is indeed a positive sign that you have registered on the editor’s radar. Especially if it’s a prozine with a good reputation or a respectable, advance-paying publishing house, the reader may be justified in feeling encouraged. And if the editor/publisher invites you to send more, then yes, the rejection might be a golden opportunity. On such occasions, NO might imply a possible future YES.

At any rate, I know that all readers’ comments on this essay, whether pro or con, will be an affirmation not only of my insight, genius, and writing abilities, but of my humanitarian concern for writers everywhere. Even if you appear to be negative and rip my opinion and words to shreds, I will know your true sentiments. And if you happen to edit a decent magazine – well, my story is already in the mail.

That’s it for this month, friends. Tune back in May, when I will expose and explore GREAT WRITER MYTHS # 2: Writing for Storytellers Unplugged is Not Only a Fast Track to Fame and Glory, but Will Ensure That You Always Have a Hot Date on Saturday Night.

Recently a writer on one of my loops asked when he should kill a story or novel. His novel, after all, had been relentlessly rejected, often by agents with varying criticisms. The verdict was in and it was unanimous: the thing was a turkey that could not be sold. Shouldn’t it therefore be put to rest?

His question struck a nerve with me. Similar to many writers, I’ve written some real stinkers, wretched, amateurish deformities that beg to be put out of their misery. After all, they shoot horses, don’t they? Wouldn’t lighting a match or hitting the delete button be an act of kindness? Looked at another way, who wants his most embarrassing, amateurish works polluting his hard drive and filing cabinet, perhaps even threatening his future? Imagine some future scholar discovering them before or after your death and using them to “revise” your literary reputation.

The horror, the horror!

What follows are three reasons not to inter the rotten fruit of your brain, the mawkish and misshapen music of your muse, the putrid and putrescent purple prose (like this) of your psyche:

1. You can learn from that piece of dreck. Yes, that’s right. Years later you can take it out and learn from your mistakes, whether it’s ludicrously inept writing, plot inconsistencies, or inadequate characterization. You can also develop more of a comprehensive overview of your writing career, both of where you’ve been and of how far you’ve come. And that may enable you to chart a better creative course in the future, one in which you avoid such earlier disasters.

2. If you keep that story or novel around, you can revise and polish it, perhaps sell it to a lucrative market. Think about it: is any story so bad that no part of it can ever be salvaged? Even if it fills you with shame, there still might be an idea or passage, the germ of another story or novel that can spring like a phoenix from its ashes. If necessary, consider that story to be a collection of random reflections you once scribbled in a notebook and which could be the fodder, the spark, for future stories.

3. Last, no matter how much it stinks, that story is a part of you. In a way, it’s your child. Wouldn’t it be a crime, even a sin to murder it? That story is a product of your past, a facet of your identity, however ill-executed it might be. As Aldous Huxley said, “A bad book is as much of a labor to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.” In addition, a bad book, when placed against a good one, can serve as a marker of how far you’ve come, how much you’ve conquered and transcended your deficiencies. And that, my friends, is inspiring, a cause for celebration and optimism.True, a bad book or story can be an embarrassment. It can strip away our pretenses and smug belief in our greatness, and expose us for the frauds we are, not only to ourselves but to those who praise and admire our work. A bad story or book can remind us that even our masterpieces are built on quicksand, and that our most monumental achievements owe a debt to failure and immaturity. When you think of it, maybe a dose of painful, character-building humility is yet another reason to preserve and acknowledge our failures, especially if we deserve it.